Book Three
Days on the water are an odd mix of serene and life-threatening. Floating downriver during gentle morning sunrises, serenaded by birdsong, is restorative in a way that I desperately need. My bruised body and tattered soul feel like I was dragged at breakneck speed behind a runaway cart across broken, jagged cobblestones, but the warmth of the sun and the rocking of the boat are slowly stitching me back together. The gentle movement of the current and the breathtaking scenery are a soothing balm.
Yet the river never lets us forget who’s in charge.
Shooting through whitewater rapids is at once terrifying and exhilarating. My eyes grow wide with quiet wonder as I stare up ahead at a roaring drop. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the river lifting our boat up as though we’ve been plucked from the water by the hand of a formidable giant. The rush of sheer power contained in the elemental forces of the river makes me shiver as we’re swept along like a leaf, pinging off gigantic boulders that should split the hull in two.
If not for the constant use of [Iron Prow], Ash’s passive boat Skill to keep us intact, I’m certain that we’d have broken apart already from the whitewater abuse. I still chuckle nervously as we approach this next drop. I’m glad that Ash told me about his Skill. Of course, he waited until after I threw up our second time bouncing through a jumble of rapids. Knowing that we’re likely not in imminent danger doesn’t help my stomach, though.
Every judder and impact rattles my teeth as we hit the churn. A man and woman in the front of the boat, one starboard and the other port, expertly push us side to side with massive poles, leveraging us away from head on collisions. Ash’s Skill is holding the boat together so far, but there’s no sense tempting fate and slamming into a rock we can’t survive. I can see the sense in that. Even so, it only makes me feel marginally safer.
We pitch sideways again and I nearly lose my balance, clutching at the boat railing with a hand that’s no longer there. The boat catches the current, lurching and bouncing through the roughest patch of rapids so far. I take a calculating look at the angry spray of white foam, the surging whirlpool off starboard, and the sharp, fang-toothed rocks all around, and dart back inside my cabin. I hunker down in my bunk, shamefaced that there’s nothing I can do to help, and pray we reach Grand Ile in one piece. The timbers of the watercraft groan ominously around me, but we make it through.
By the time the worst of the shaking stops, I’m huddled in a puddle of my own sweat. My stomach lurches as I look at the sheets, twisted into a knot in my right fist. My heart hammers in my chest even though we’re back in calm waters. It’s safe to go back outside, but I am far from ready to show my face above deck.
The stench of my own fear fills the room. I untangle myself from the soaked bed sheets, looking down with dismay. I’ll have to wash out my bedding again—thankfully, this time there’s no vomit caked on the covers and thin sheets—but I don’t want to listen to the teasing from the [River Workers], [Ferrymen], and [Navigator] on board.
Their words are all meant in good fun, but I’m more sensitive than usual after losing my hand in the Rift. My mates and I razzed each other harder in the hot shop. So why do I hate their jokes? I wonder if it’s because in Ember’s shop, I knew it was all part of being on a team. We were family.
Here, I’m just dead weight. In the way. A maimed, unstable, off kilter “Mage.”
I may be quickly adapting to my new body, but I’m off balance emotionally. The Rift took something out of me, something vital. All my burgeoning sense of purpose. All my Skills. All my confidence. Burned away in an instant.
Nearly an hour passes before I pull myself together. What would Tem say if he saw me like this? Well. Maybe he’d understand. He’s lost things in Rifts, too, I tell myself. The indulgent thought rattles around in my mind for a moment. Then I snort, force myself to get up from my huddled-up position on my narrow bunk, and shake my head. He still doesn’t wallow, despite his loss. I shouldn’t, either.
By the time I talk myself into behaving like a well-adjusted adult, I’ve missed the dinner bell. I clean up my face, compose myself, and shuffle back above deck, content to get in some painful mana practice before I find my own food for the night.
At the first taste of the burning, liquid fire that sears through my channels, I hiss in pain and let go of the basic mana circulation pattern. I brush up against the wreckage of Skills in my inner space, checking for damage. Only [Heat Manipulation] is semi-cohesive still. I thread the faintest trace of mana I can into the skill. With a weak pulse of energy, it activates, creating a cold zone around me for a few seconds before I cut the connection as the pain mounts.
Satisfied that I’m making small but agonizing progress, I let go of further notions of practicing my Skills. I’ll get there. It won’t be today, but I’m not giving up yet. Instead, I look around the deck to see if there’s any place I fit in. Is there anything I can do with my time on the boat when I’m not simply admiring the scenery? I want to get back to being useful.
I mostly try to stay out of the way, avoiding the rigging and the pole work, the hustle and bustle of workers with purpose. They have achievable goals; I envy them.
Ash is busy commanding his vessel, so I try not to bother him. He’s gone out of way to make time for me before, particularly during the dinner hour. I’ve missed the opportunity tonight, but usually he invites me to share a meal with the other officers. I appreciate that he’s trying to help me fit in. I just wish that he didn’t have to try at all.
I find a sturdy coil of hempen rope as thick around as my wrist, plop myself on top of the makeshift seat, and lean back against the weathered wooden side of the main bridge. Back on placid waters, the gentle movement and pleasant warmth of the sun conspire to lull me to sleep. I wake just in time to admire another sunset.
The sky’s painted in brush strokes of cerulean and pink, vermillion and apricot. My eyes drink in the vibrant colors of creation, and I enjoy the warmth of the fading sun on my face. My sour mood evaporates like paint fumes on a sunny day. Lying on my back, my hand nestled behind my head, I come to a conclusion. I never want to travel by foot again. Watercraft are the most beautiful invention humanity has ever come up with.
=+=
A few languid days later, we finally approach our destination. Just after enjoying the sunrise, I’m interrupted in the mess hall by the big [Barge Master], who bounds into the cramped quarters with a huge smile on his expressive face.
“Zebulun, you may want to come to the foredeck,” Ash rumbles in his musical baritone. “Grand Ile is a sight every man should see once in his life. You only get one chance to make a first impression, and if you wait till we’re through the lock system and back down to the ground level, then you won’t get to see the full majesty of the jewel of the island valleys.”
I leverage myself up from where I’m sitting and follow up out of the main cabin and mess hall. My bones and muscles have regained a semblance of normality over the last few days of travel, but I still keep my pace sedate as I join Ash. I don't quite trust my body not to dissolve into pain and weakness, although I know it's largely just in my mind. The [Menders] have done their best. I'm healing. Well, other than my hand, which is a total loss.
I amble up to the front of the barge to stand next to Ash. Dramatically, he turns in a slow circle and gestures with both hands, as though his wide wingspan can embrace the entire world. “Zebulun! Behold Grand Ile in all its glory.”
The jaded, pessimistic part of me thinks this world has no more wonders. Surely there are no more surprises left after I’ve seen the inside of two Rifts—and lived to tell about it. What else is there to see in life? Thankfully, that part of me is just plain dumb.
Before us stretches serpentine waterways as far as the eye can see. The green-blue water glitters like cut diamonds in the noonday sun. Rice paddies adorn the nearby cliffs and slopes, working their way up the side of the hills. In my mind, I can just see giants walking up the rice paddies, using the terraces as shimmering stairways to reach the clouds. The thought brings a tentative smile to my lips.
My soul is shot through with unexpected melancholy and longing at the sight. The surface of each field glimmers like polished stained glass in all the colors of the rainbow. It reminds me how much I miss working with my hands, miss the surge of pride when my creative vision coalesces into the delicate beauty of glass. I push aside the sour feelings, turning to smile tremulously at my friend Ash. He’s still grinning at me, an expectant look on his face.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe, my voice instinctively soft, as though speaking too loudly will disrupt the natural beauty of the place. My presence can only mar the perfection here, if the Rift is any indication of my impact. I scowl, shoving away the self deprecating intrusion to my good mood.
“Yes. They do their best to keep it that way for all eternity,” Ash replies with a wink.
I frown. “You’re saying that this is an artificial garden on an unimaginable scale? How? That doesn’t seem possible.”
Ash shakes his head. “What you see isn’t fake. Not really. It’s a preservation of an earlier time, however. Nature and humanity, working in concert to produce something even greater than the sum of its parts.”
I study the canyon walls with new interest. Tendrils of dark-green ivy creep along the cliffs. Every so often, one of the vines appears far larger than its running mates, swelling into an oversized cable as thick as a tree trunk. When I squint, I can just make out the truss work that supports the plant life. Wherever a tangle of lesser vines converge into a monstrous mother-vine, as I decide to call it, pale pink flowers bloom in bell shapes.
Overhead, the skies are filled with wheeling birds. They’re reminiscent of seagulls, but several times larger and marked with dark, dappled spots. The crew occasionally tosses scraps of food up into the air for them to fight over; not a single crumb makes it back down. The birds are frighteningly fast and agile in their pursuit of food.
A few more birds emerge from circular caves in the cliff side that on closer inspection are too uniform to occur naturally. Nonetheless, there is still an expensive beauty that feels authentic, no matter that it is a meticulously cultivated look.
Up ahead the first lock gate looms, bone white and unmistakably inorganic. It is a scar across the land, an ugly admission that not even the great city of Grand Ile can tame the rugged wilderness. And beyond the locks, the city.
We will take the lock system down to the plains. I am looking forward to the experience. Or, I was, until the fabled walls of the city of Grand Ile rise into view.
If not for staring at it with my own eyes, I’m not sure I could believe the awesome height of the soaring city walls. How can the polished white stone, veined through with golden streaks, support its own weight? If the walls were laid down on their side, I doubted I could sprint from the base to the top in under a minute. The sheer cost of enchanting all that—with a frown, I turn to Ash and voice my disappointed conclusion.
“It’s an illusion array, isn’t it,” I say bitterly.
“Ha! Can’t pull one over on a [Mage] in training,” Ash replies, winking back at me.
“How much is real?” I ask quietly. “Or is it all a farce?” This is the city I've pinned all my hopes upon?
“Half or so, best as I can tell,” Ash says. “But does it matter? The city is incredible!”
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I want to argue, want to deny that something so obviously false could be as amazing as Ash thinks, but then I remember that my glass pieces aren’t real, either. They’re still beautiful. I don’t know where the line lies between artful and artificial, but I suppose it is possible for deceptions to hit close to the truth. After all, isn’t that what stories do? Fiction helps peel back the layers of reality, allowing us to see with fresh eyes; done properly, it unveils truths about us and our world that we wouldn’t see otherwise.
Satisfied that I’ve settled the debate in my mind, I survey the growing flotilla around us. More and more boats join the river, sailing in from side channels and tributaries. The river widens until I can barely see from shoreline to shoreline, and I suppose it’s more accurate to call our current environment a lake, not a river. Up ahead, everything narrows down again for the lock system. Ash commands the workers to slow the pace, keeping an eye on the other boats and barges to make sure that we don’t suffer any unfortunate collisions. I’ve never seen so many boats in one place, but the traffic is only growing more congested as we approach the first lock.
I’ve never gone through a lock. The concept is simple enough, but watching it in person is fascinating. The boats ahead of us enter on level water, the gates close behind them with a clang of finality, and the chamber is sealed. Seeing the boats re-emerge hundreds of feet lower seems like magic at work—as far as I knew, most locks lower or raise boats by a few dozen feet at the most. Perhaps there is dimensional magic at play? I wonder to myself, since they’re leaping past enormous swaths of land.
I don’t feel like asking Ash, however. There’s no point in embarrassing myself by revealing my ignorance in front of him while his crew is still nearby. He knows about my current condition, but the others still think I’m an upstanding mage, and he’s been kind enough to allow them to persist in that delusion. I don’t need the kind of questions that will accompany the truth. Let them think Zebulun is clever and competent.
After what seems like an eternity, our turn in the queue arrives. We glide forward, propelled by the long, sturdy poles of the [River Workers]. A few other boats and barges take a position near us, which makes sense given the volume of traffic heading to Grand Ile. From my understanding, most locks are smaller affairs. They admit a single watercraft, and only change moderate levels. Nothing in Grand Ile is reserved or scaled back, however. They seem to think that if they don't go as big and bombastic as possible, then it's not worth doing.
I chuckle to myself. A smaller, safer operation is simply not fit for their illustrious city. Their romantic sense of grandeur appeals to me, if I’m honest. I like their style.
The water drains quickly once the gates are sealed behind us, although I don't feel any lurches or indications that we’re moving. The process is smooth, but impressively efficient as we sink lower and lower. Within a quarter of an hour, we’ve traveled several hundred feet down the mountain. The lock disgorges us into the next reach of level water.
Throughout the descent through the locks, I’ve stood in the prow of the boat, shoulder to shoulder with Ash so that I can take in the sights and sounds. Two locks later, when the gates open, they reveal the prize I’ve been waiting to see with my own eyes: the gates of Grand Ile. I lean forward on the railing, drinking it all in. The splendor on display on the way down so far pales in comparison however when we finally catch a glimpse of the entryway into the magnificent city.
Most city gates bar entrance from caravans and wagons, horseback and pedestrian traffic. Grand Ile, however, as the name implies, is a city on the water. As a multiple-island metropolis, Grand Ile admits ships, boats, barges and all sorts of other nautical craft directly through its front gates. The fabled gates are tightly woven links of spiked metal, imbued with enough mana that they glow faintly even to my dull and battered senses. I don’t need a Skill to sense something miraculous.
With the rasp of heavy chains, audible even from our vantage point three locks away, the ponderous gates retract into a massive portcullis. The first wave of traffic inches forward as [Ferrymen] and [River Workers] push long poles against the sides and bottoms of the canal, propelling themselves forward and into the city. The progress is slow and orderly, with regular pauses as officials board each ship to question the occupants and examine the manifest. My scalp tingles, prickling with a wash of heat as I anticipate the questions they’ll have when they look at my papers.
Four hours pass before the line ahead of us is through the city gates. Yet when our turn finally arrives, I find myself wishing that I had more time. My emotions are a jagged mess, a jumble of conflicting fears and hopes. If any of the guards have a Skill to sound the depths of my being, my anxiety will be laid bare before them. What if they don’t buy my story? What if Vicario’s friend made a mistake with the counterfeiting?
“Papers,” a sharply-dressed guard asks, thrusting out his hand. His immaculately trimmed, freshly-oiled mustache forms a thin curlicue underneath his long, aquiline nose. His curly, dusty-brown hair peeks out from under his bronze helm, and I get the sense that it is meticulously styled. He seems to enjoy the flash and circumstance of greeting people to Grand Isle, despite the affectation of boredom.
I fumble in my vest pocket, reaching across to my left breast pocket with my right hand. It takes me a few tries to withdraw my papers, and I flush with furious embarrassment. I am still not used to getting by with only one hand—and if simply presenting papers to a city guard is this difficult, then how do I expect to manipulate glass in the hot shop without any Skills to help? I shove away the discouraging thought, give the papers to the guard, and mumble a muffled apology with a dip of my head.
The guard’s eyes flicker back and forth, alight with what I suspect is a Skill-enforced inspection. After only a cursory glance, he bundles the papers back up and hands them to me with a thin smile. “Long way from home, Zebulun. I have a great aunt who moved to a city near your town, though. Metolius, right? She was crazy! Full of stories when she came back, but not many are very believable. Hey! Come to think of it, is The Loathsome Fly still a hot bed of rabble-rousing ruckus?”
Panic grips my heart. Just my luck someone has information about Metolius, a city clear on the other side of Densmore. He clearly knows more about it than I do. I’m not good at thinking on my feet, but a sudden thought bails me out, and I laugh ruefully. “I don’t know, Sir. My father always told me nothing good comes from that kind of establishment, and for once in my life I was smart enough—or lucky enough, maybe—to listen to him.”
The guard chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder. “Probably the better choice. Why are you here, anyway? Long way to travel.”
“I’m hoping to participate in the glass-making competition. My master suggested a few closer cities, but I thought I’d take this chance to see the world.”
“Indulge while you can,” the guard said, nodding sagely. “Smart of you. Well, Zebulun, enjoy your stay in Grand Ile. Welcome to the most beautiful city in Densmore.”
I share a chuckle with him, pocket my papers, and resume my place next to Ash while we slip inside the gates of Grand Ile. As the din of commerce and the riot of colors inside the city hit us, I almost collapse, sagging against the railing of the ship in overwhelming relief.
This is it. We made it! The journey to Grand Ile is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I’ve learned far more than I ever dared to hope, and lost far more than I ever feared. But I’m finally here. I only hope it was all worth it.
=+=
The next morning finds me cursing my ill luck in the Rift. I managed to dress myself just fine. But tying my hair back from my face with only one hand is more arduous than I anticipated. Maybe it was a poor idea to grow it out. My fingers are dexterous from years in the hot shop, but this is challenging in ways I’ve never had to overcome before.
I fumble with the narrow strip of brown leather for another few moments before I give up and throw it down on the bed in disgust. I’ll have to find another way to wear my hair if this isn’t working.
I trudge downstairs, determined not to give in to the defeat. I’ll figure something out. For now, I’m grateful to simply be alive.
The inn in which I’m staying is nicer than the ones in the last few villages and cities, with big, copper baths in the rooms. At first, I felt a twinge of guilt about spending the last of my coins on luxurious accommodations before I had a chance to sell off the few valuables I salvaged from the Rift. That feeling is short-lived, however, as I figure that I’ve earned a reprieve after the horrors of the last week.
A few questions later, my hostess provides me with a ready-made map that points me toward a shopping district, with a list of recommended stores already printed on the back of the thin pamphlet. I take it with a slight nod of my head. “Impressive level of professionalism around here. It’s a welcome change from the road.”
“Free of charge, lad,” she replies with a pleasant smile that looks well-practiced over her many years. Another guest greets her, and she whisks away with a parting wave and a flourish.
Back in civilization, I think as I watch her go about her work with enthusiasm and grace. Her gray curls and lined face say that she’s easily old enough to be my mother, but her brisk step and sparkling eyes as she bustles around with more energy than I have makes her seem youthful. She’s in charge of the inn, presiding with matriarchal dignity, but she’s not stuffy or aloof. Somehow, she manages to seem friendly, helpful, and utterly above the petty problems of her guests. The unfriendliness of some of the proprietors I met during my travels fades like a far distant memory.
Map in hand, I stride outside to explore the wide, gleaming streets of Grand Ile. Half the city is waterways, and I may need to hire one of the thousands of little boats people use to traverse the city. Thankfully, there are plenty of broad, cobblestone avenues and busy streets that won’t take any money to traverse as I move from large island to island. I suppose it makes sense, since Grand Ile means big island, anyway.
Once I find the right shop, then I’ll be able to barter away my treasures from the Rift to earn enough coin for the entry fee. I also need to arrange for my own set of tools, as well as pick up some new clothes. And obtain a hair-tie solution that’s workable with a single hand. I snort merrily at the stray thought. Priorities, Nuri!
A night of sleep has done wonders for my previously dour mood. I whistle as I walk from shop to shop, chatting with vendors and admiring their wares. It feels good to be back in a civilized place. Even the lesser artisans in a city this grand put out impressive work. If I’m honest, Ember’s shop would probably blend in with all the others if transported here. We’re solid workers, but we aren’t special.
I keep walking, lengthening my stride and challenging my healed muscles. It feels good to walk briskly and not have to turn around after a handful of steps; I haven’t been able to truly stretch my legs while on the boat. The artisan district flies by, but I keep moving. I’m not looking for a reputable workshop, however. I need a place where I can fence some goods, no questions asked. The last thing I need to do is answer awkward and pointed inquiries about where I sourced the valuables.
My right hand reflexively digs into my inner pocket, which is hidden under several folds of fabric to ensure that pickpockets won’t have an easy time relieving me of my wealth. I’m sure Smoke would laugh at my naivete if she saw my meager preparations, but I’m doing what I can to stay safe in the city. I turn the malformed mana crystals in my fingers, resisting the urge to draw from the fragments. I’m still not sufficiently recovered to risk that kind of energy flow.
I wish things were different. I wish I could come here under my own name, rather than an assumed identity. I wish I didn’t have to sell off these precious mana crystals, since they would come in handy if I could still use my Skills. The extra energy source would be helpful to practice what I’m almost certain is the first steps for proper mana imbuing. I sigh. I wish I still had my hard earned Skills. I wish I had my beast core, too. Why couldn’t my life be easy for once?
A fragrant floral scent fills the air. I follow my nose through the crafter's quarters, and emerge into an open plaza packed with a sea of colors. Flowers of all sizes, shapes, and hues fill the wide open market. The array of choices is dizzying, but I enjoy seeing the creativity of each vendor’s offering. This is a city that prizes beauty. Silaraon has markets, but aside from the occasional glassware or painting, we don't have an entire marketplace dedicated to lavish displays of excess.
I'm still in the wrong place, though, so I move on even though there's something about the artful arrangements that tug at my heartstrings. I’d give almost anything to have the kind of quiet, anonymous life that I did before. I can't believe I spent so much time complaining and pining after having an adventure. I had no idea how good I had it! Right now, the simple pleasure of stopping to smell the flowers is a luxury I can't afford. One more thing I wish had turned out differently.
In the end, my map is only useful if I want to play the part of an upstanding citizen. I have to wander away from the brightly marked shopping centers, the respectable corridors of cafes, and the purveyors of curios and fine art. I wander farther from the central river—the lifeblood of Grand Ile—and make my way toward the murky pockets of existence that invariably spring up in the shadows. I suspect I’ll find them tucked away near the massive city walls.
Half an hour later, I run into the first sign of decay and the breakdown of the social order. A kid half my age huddles in a doorway, peeking surreptitiously out to watch the passersby. I may be guilty of stereotyping, but he seems like the kind of kid who will know where to sell stolen goods, likely after he’s the one to steal them.
I slip a slender clipping of silver from my coin pouch, angling it so that it catches the light. The reflection flashes in the boy’s direction. I pocket it again, wandering slowly and peering into the scattered shops in between the claustrophobic huddle of apartments. As I walk by, I give him a slight nod and keep moving.
Five minutes later, he catches up to me while I’m admiring a swirling, dark grey cloak in a heavily-chained display case. He says nothing, just standing near me, wide-eyed just like I am with appreciation for the fine craftsmanship.
“Good sneaking cloak,” I grunt, gesturing toward the case.
The boy chuckles. “You could use it. Pretty obvious.”
“Yep,” I say easily, agreeing with his assessment.
He shuffles a step closer. “Whatcha need?”
I stroke my beard with my right hand, as though weighing whether I can trust him. “Gotta sell some stuff. No questions. Can you take me?”
“It’ll cost you,” he warns, giving me a hard glare.
I flip the clipping of silver to him, still mostly focused on the cloak. I don’t need it, but I want it. If I earn enough from offloading the few mana crystals I brought with me, then I vow to come back and buy it. I could use a style upgrade.
The street kid gives me a gap-toothed smile, vanishing the clipping too quickly for me to follow. “Eyy! Of course I can show you. We take good care of paying customers. Welcome to Grand Ile, my friend.”